


i could be your excuse for a lover

by agentpolastri



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: 2 seconds of angst, F/F, Fluff, Kisses, More Fluff, alternate 3x08 ending, and imitating the ending of a romantic drama, don't worry it's BARELY angsty, realizing she was wrong, this is eve pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:13:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24497020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentpolastri/pseuds/agentpolastri
Summary: Eve runs through the streets of London with two mismatched boots and thinks that she looks like the protagonist of an overly dramatic romance movie.Villanelle would watch that.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 8
Kudos: 222





	i could be your excuse for a lover

When Eve turns around on the London bridge, it’s already too late. Empty space lingers where Villanelle’s shadow did not. She imagines her stone-faced and briskly walking away, down the narrow passageways that would lead to whatever safehouse she was staying in to prepare for a new _Eve-less_ life. This whole time, Eve had been using the destruction of her life to push the assassin away, but she had never taken into account just how much was going on behind the scenes for Villanelle.

It had shown at the table right before their waltz; Eve had honed in on the lost look in her eyes, the slight downturn of her lips as Villanelle tried to reel in the scattered pieces of her despair while watching the couples whirl around on the dance floor. She wanted to be like that, she had said. 

Eve wanted to give her that. She wanted to intertwine their fingers and sway in place, she wanted to argue over who was leading, she wanted to joke about Villanelle having absolutely no sense of rhythm and let her tuck Eve’s head under her chin because she was much taller than she had anticipated this close. Eve wanted to watch movies with her and take her to dinner and undo the buttons of her blazer to push them off of her shoulders while they stumbled into the bedroom. 

She wanted someone. She wanted Villanelle. She wanted _Oksana._ She wanted a partner to travel all over the world with and someone to share her latest theories about the Twelve with. Eve wanted someone who could match her with every half-crazed stride that she took in the opposite direction from the rest of society, two lone figures that would shoulder through a stream of pedestrians before boarding an empty train car that would ride into the unknown.

Eve trudges away from London bridge and doesn’t look back, because she knows that the blonde wouldn’t be foolish enough to return. Eve had already proved that she didn’t want Villanelle in her mind.

London seems so much greyer all of a sudden. Eve thinks of the mustard yellow jacket that Villanelle wears and how it pooled around her entire body and floated as she walked. The world was in high definition, 3D, and blu-ray all at once when Eve could count the hairs drifting around the assassin’s face before she had told her to turn around. Eve had never wanted to kiss her so badly at that moment. Now she never would. 

The apartment is a mess and it stinks of food she had left out on the counter for too long. The dishes must be washed, the clothes thrown around on the floor laundered and folded and put away, the dust bunnies swept up—but all she can bring herself to do is shrug off her coat and sit on the bed. 

The worn out plastic heart on her bedside table mocks her. 

She collapses backwards on the hard, spring-filled mattress and opens up her phone to do something stupid like play Candy Crush or swipe meaninglessly between apps while she wallows in her own depression. 

Isn’t this what she wanted this whole time? Isn’t this what she had ultimately asked for, to make it stop? A normal life, a house, a chicken? Nothing about Russian assassins or international crime syndicates or strings of murders across the globe begging to be solved. Absolutely no hint of chopping a man into pieces with an axe, of stabbing a woman in her own bed, of crushing pairs of ribs under her boot and the weight that came with it. 

None of that.

Eve goes to swipe away all of her apps in frustration and comes face to face with her call history. A number stares back at her dauntingly. Already, Eve can hear Villanelle’s voice.

_Wow, Eve. Are you that desperate?_

_No,_ she thinks. _Well, yes. I’m in love. Isn’t this something that a lover would do?_

 _Maybe in one of those creepy stalker movies,_ the Villanelle in her head answers for her. 

Her phone dials. And dials. And dials. It clicks, and then stark silence greets her ears. No answer. 

Eve calls bear.

“What the fuck, Eve?” He asks groggily on the other end. “You do know it’s 3 in the morning, right?”

“Yes,” she replies immediately. “Do you have your laptop?”

Bear is silent. She thinks that he’s trying to decide whether or not to hang up on her, then a soft nasally sound reverberates through the phone call. 

“ _Bear._ ” Eve snaps. The snoring stops and he groans.

“ _What,_ Eve? Listen, how do you know I wasn’t busy shagging someone or something? This is awfully rude,” he grumbles.

“Are you shagging someone?” She bluntly asks. Her eyes nearly roll to the back of her head. 

A pause.

“Well, no, but you get the basic princi—”

“I need you to track an outgoing phone call I just had. I sent the number to you.” 

“This is about _her_ again, isn’t it?” Bear asks, though she hears him typing away on his laptop. “Are _you_ shagging anyone, Eve?”

“Oh, fuck off,” she sighs. A hand raises to pinch the place between both of her eyes as a migraine begins to build. She isn’t sure if it’s Bear’s actual voice causing it or the stress of not knowing where Villanelle was at 3 in the morning directly after accidentally rejecting her. 

She has never fucked up this badly, which is saying something.

“Alright, looks like it’s—well, she—is right outside of King’s Cross station.” 

Villanelle was leaving. She was leaving London. Alarm bells go off in her head because she knows she can’t afford another trip across Europe to find her other half. Eve immediately hangs up on Bear in the middle of him trying to convince her to pay him for his ‘generous services’, shoves on two different boots and a tattered hoodie and _runs._

With the wind hitting her face and the occasionally disgruntled passerby on the sidewalk, Eve feels like she’s the protagonist in one of those stupid romantic dramas that Villanelle would probably watch. _Only heroes get the girl, my ass,_ she thinks angrily to herself, another swell of hot rage threatening to burst from her when the memory of Carolyn’s suggestion resurfaces in her mind.

Quit _cold turkey?_ This wasn’t an addiction. This was _more._

It was funny. Eve felt more married to Villanelle than she had ever been to Niko. Would she have ran through the streets of London in nothing but sweatpants, mismatched boots and a hoodie for him?

It doesn’t take her long to come up with the answer. _Fuck no._ The irritation spurs her on despite the burning in her legs.

Eve only almost gets hit by a car twice which impresses her considering how many times she had illegally crossed a large street. She stumbles into the station sticky, sweaty, panting, and all too wild-eyed for any normal person to feel comfortable being near her. The usual crowd of travellers in the station has thinned out relatively compared to during the daytime rush, and it doesn’t take too long for a familiar head of blonde hair to catch Eve’s gaze.

Villanelle doesn’t even look up from where she’s staring at her feet with her hands in the pockets of that mustard yellow jacket-dress-thing before Eve quite literally crashes into her. The sudden weight of Eve knocks the breath out of the assassin and smacks their foreheads together, but she barely has time to react before Eve is grabbing her by her front and clacking their teeth in what could _barely_ be counted as a proper kiss. It’s messy, and desperate, and the complete opposite of the kiss on the bus, but it’s exactly how Eve feels in this moment because _this_ is probably the most insane thing she has ever done. _Yes,_ she outranked Raymond with this journey. 

Maybe she needed to get her priorities in order. 

Villanelle’s hands grip tightly at Eve’s upper arms as she only just now seems to be getting her bearings. She drops back against the dirty floor of the station looking the most stunned and cautiously happy Eve has ever seen her. 

Eve’s fists curl in the front of her dress as she simply stares at the Russian’s face, her breath coming out hard and fast. Finally, she manages to spit out what she had wanted to say back on the London bridge.

“I love you.” She tries to catch her breath as she cups Villanelle’s face between her hands, insists on pressing their foreheads together. A chuckle bubbles from her lips, but she’s not really sure what the punchline is here. Eve chalks it up to nervousness. She feels the other woman’s hands around her wrists in a comforting pressure.

“I do,” Eve whispers, hot tears escaping her eyes. It’s when she feels something wet drip on her hands that she realizes that Villanelle is crying, too, her face crumpling up like a tossed out love letter. It is not a pretty cry; the blonde leans up into Eve and fully wraps her arms around her frame to muffle a choked out sob that shakes her shoulders. 

_I love you._

_You don’t know what that is._

_I do._

Villanelle pulls back and Eve thumbs away the fat droplets that continue to slide down her cheeks. A kind smile graced her lips as she simply let one of the many black curls slip through her fingers, ghosts her hand over Eve’s cheekbone with the softest expression the older woman has ever seen. 

“I didn’t know you were that much of a romantic, Eve,” she laughs brokenly. She leans in again but pauses right in front of Eve’s lips, her eyes glancing upward as if asking for permission. Eve only smiles, brushes a blonde strand behind her ear, and closes the gap between them to properly feel the plush of Villanelle’s lips against her own. They’re soft, much softer than Eve’s chapped lips, and so _warm._

Eve feels like she has just placed the last piece of a puzzle long in the making. For a moment, she thinks she sees a red string winding around their hands, and it’s strangely comforting that maybe there was some sort of higher power out there that knew this was meant to happen.

Who was she kidding? _She_ ran through London looking like a madwoman. Fuck the higher powers, Eve did all the work.

They part after what feels like hours despite the dirty looks given them by the passerby forced to mill around them. A tinny voice announces the arrival of a train on one of the platforms and air rushes past them as the long metal vehicle shoves it’s way into the building. Eve stands up before offering Villanelle a hand as well.

“That’s my train,” says the assassin. A yellow ticket that matches her dress is folded in her hand. 

Eve takes the slip of paper, crumples it up, and promptly throws it behind her without a second thought.

“What train?” She asks, smiling wryly. Eve gathers the one suitcase the other woman brought and holds out her free hand to the blonde in offering. 

“Let’s go somewhere, Villanelle. Just you and me.”

She holds her breath until Villanelle laces her fingers with Eve’s. She fully clasps their palms together and hopes to never let go again.

“Okay,” Villanelle whispers. 

Together, they leave the train station.

**Author's Note:**

> this is me coping with 3x08 because it was SO good oh my god  
> i'm @topeve on tumblr!!!!!!! tell me what you think in the comments!


End file.
